Page 31 of Love Me (Charlotte Monarchs Hockey #1)

Luke

G oing home is like pressing an Express to Hell button on a time machine. I’m immediately transported back to the years before I left for Kamloops to play for the Blazers in the WHL. The years through ages eleven to sixteen were the worst of my life.

When I tell people I’m from Vancouver, British Columbia, most respond the same way. “I’ve always wanted to visit there,” or “I hear it’s so beautiful.”

Everyone I know thinks Vancouver is this charming, lush wonderland, and it is—for some.

Growing up in Downtown Eastside, DTES to locals, taught me many things long before a kid should know about them. I learned how to reach into my jacket to make it look like I was packing a gun when someone aggressive-looking approached. I learned how to barter for food, bus tickets—even ice time.

I’m in town to meet with Ryder Lockwood, our second-round pick in last year’s draft, at Purebread in Gastown. He’s from North Vancouver, which is across the Burrard Inlet, where I’m from. Across the inlet and light-years away. May as well be another planet.

“Ryder!” I call to the kid walking in the door. He’s not hard to spot in a gray Puck Hcky T-shirt, baggy, black basketball shorts, and a red Vancouver Giants ball cap.

His eyes light up when he sees me like a kid at a Canucks game. When he reaches my table, he extends his hand. “Mr. Daniels! How are you?”

I glance behind me. “Is my dad here?” I tease him, shaking his hand. “You can call me Luke.”

It’s a lame joke, especially because it doesn’t touch on my real life at all. My father died fifteen years ago.

“Thanks, Luke.” Ryder plants himself in the chair across from me.

“Want something?” I nod to the counter, where approximately one million people wait for one of Purebread’s delicious pastries. The line travels out the door.

“I’ll hold off.” He laughs. “Maybe I should have picked a different place.”

What I want to say is “No shit,” but I hold my tongue because I get it. He’s nineteen, and Purebread is a trendy place, located in Vancouver’s oldest neighborhood, which is situated between Downtown to the west and Downtown Eastside—aka drug addict’s haven—to the east.

“I thought I’d have to go out to Langley to see you.”

The Giants recently moved their home games from the Pacific Coliseum, in the city, to the Langley Events Centre, which is just southeast of Vancouver.

“Nah, I still live around here. The commute sucks.” Ryder shrugs. “But at least I get to catch up on my shows while I’m on the train. I just finished Game of Thrones. Did you watch that?”

“Yeah. Unbelievable series.” My coffee is still too hot to drink, so I slug a sip from my water bottle instead.

“Oh my god! When Cersei?—”

Panic rips through my insides, and I raise my hand. “I’m only through season four!”

“Whoa! Sorry, Luke. I almost dropped a major spoiler on you.”

I’m not a TV freak or anything, but that would’ve pissed me off. Maybe I should’ve read the books first. “New subject,” I tell him with a wink. “So, how’s it going?”

“Good. I started the program you emailed me. It’s killer, man.”

I sent Ryder the fitness and nutrition program I used when I played. It’s grueling, but it gets results fast.

“It’s supposed to be. I’ve got to get you ready for the next level, ya know?”

“I know. I’m ready for the challenge.” Ryder grabs the flat brim of his hat and adjusts it on his head.

The style irks the crotchety old man in me. There’s nothing better than creating the perfect curve on a broken-in hat.

“You are?” I ask, forgetting about the annoying flat brim and getting back to business. “Then tell me why you kept passing to Lincoln last night.” I wasn’t in town for the game, but I watched the video on the flight from Charlotte to Vancouver.

Ryder leans back in the chair, his shoulders curved toward the table. He knows it’s a rhetorical question.

“You need to shoot,” I continue. “More shots equal more chances and more goals, right?”

He nods.

“I’m all for passing and being a good teammate, but sometimes, you’ve got to rip it yourself.”

More nodding. It reminds me of bobblehead night at Monarchs games. Those things creep me out.

“You can do it. You’ve got a great shot.” I tap my temple. “You’re too much up in here. Let go and let it rip.”

“Yes, sir.”

If he looks like I just kicked his puppy with spiked boots now, he’ll probably spill tears in my coffee when I start in on him about his partying.

Ryder is a great kid. He’s fast and smart, kind and disciplined. But he’s young and just became old enough to drink legally in British Columbia, and I know the kid’s been partying his ass off thanks to social media and selfie-happy girls who like to brag about who they’re hanging out with.

I remember being nineteen and in “the Dub.” It’s bigtime for a young guy. Some of the girls have slowly transformed from innocent teenagers with a crush to real puck bunnies who just want to hook up with a hockey player.

And the hormones kicking around inside don’t make it any easier for a guy to keep his head in the game. But it’s essential if they want to make it in the big league. That’s the reality of being a professional athlete.

“You still living at home?” I ask.

He nods again.

“How’s that working out?”

“All right.” He sits up straight. “Mom’s cool. Dad’s on my ass all the time.”

“Not all the time. Didn’t you miss curfew a few nights ago?”

His shoulders drop, and he closes his eyes. When he opens them, he’s looking at the floor, avoiding me. He’s been playing hockey long enough to know that shit will get back to me.

“Ryder, I was in your shoes. Hell, the majority of guys in the league have been in your shoes. But you have to make a choice. Partying or hockey. Partying can’t be your top priority.

You’re a smart kid. You know what it takes.

Now you need to go all in.” I meet his eyes.

“Body, head, heart. That’s the life. Got it? ”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you all in?”

“I’m all in, Luke. I swear. You can count on me.”

“You have my number. Call me if you need anything or if you need to talk. I’m a Vancouver boy, too.”

“Really? Where’d you grow up?” Ryder asks.

I pause before I answer. “A few blocks away. Downtown Eastside.”

“No shit?”

Ryder is from a well-off family in North Vancouver. His dad is a high-up at HSBC Bank Canada, and his mom is a teacher at a private secondary school. He’s probably never been past Gastown, which is shady enough, despite its recent revitalization.

“I’m living proof that if you keep your head clear and work your ass off, you can accomplish anything.” I stand up, hoping Ryder will take the hint and go. “When does the bus leave for Spokane?”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and presses a button to check the time. “Three hours.”

“Get the fuck out of here.” I point to the door.

I don’t want to talk more about growing up in Downtown Eastside. And I don’t want it to be my fault he’s late because I scheduled our meeting so close to wheels-up for the Giants’ road trip.

It’s been an emotional week, but I’m still riding high from breakfast with Bree. I’m glad I had time with her this morning to iron out my thoughts about the trip. Ryder didn’t need me preaching at him about having a clear head while I was fucked up. Talk about being the biggest hypocrite ever.

I’ll take the fact that Bree said yes as a victory during an otherwise shitty time in my life.

No doubt, Jack is looking down on me and smiling. He once made a comment about me spending so much time at the hospital that I should find a girlfriend there.

I’m trying to clean up my table, but my thoughts keep veering back to Bree.

It’s no surprise that I wanted to fuck her the first time I saw her, but those purely physical thoughts quickly morphed into enjoying everything about her.

Her company, her sense of humor, her optimism.

I knew we had more of a connection before Jack’s funeral, but I’m well aware that it’s taking her a bit longer.

Which cracks me up. I’ve never been the chaser in a relationship before.

It’s deeper than just chasing her. I need to get in her head and figure out what makes her tick. I want to know what makes her happy. I want to reciprocate the thoughtfulness she showed me.

I know she’ll love the Whitewater Center, which is a huge facility dedicated to outdoor activities like whitewater rafting, kayaking, and hiking. I can’t wait to take her there when I get back.

Having something and, more importantly, some one to look forward to is an amazing feeling. One I haven’t had much recently.

Ryder’s been gone about ten minutes when I finally pack up my stuff to leave Purebread and meet up with my mom.

I feel like the shittiest son ever because of what I’m about to do. I still haven’t completely bought into the idea, but I know I have to let her go. I have to tell her I can’t go on like this.

Over the last few years, I’ve done everything I possibly can to help her out of this life. She hasn’t changed. I know everything that comes out of her mouth is bullshit, and I can’t watch her kill herself any longer.

I texted last night to let her know I was in town, and I haven’t heard back. As I walk to the door, I send another, hoping she’ll respond and confirm she’ll actually meet with me.

Me: Just finished up my meeting. Where can I meet you?

Her response is immediate, which gives me false hope that she’s excited to see me this time. And not just to ask me for money.

Mom: Hastings Market.

Me: On my way.

I take a deep breath, open the door, and head for my old neighborhood.

Walking east on Hastings Street from Purebread is sadly nostalgic.

I lived in this general area my entire childhood, but specifically in DTES from the ages of eleven to sixteen.

They were the absolute worst years for a kid to be subjected to this kind of life, but it wasn’t like I had a choice.